


A Spirited Companion

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Crack, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Ghosts, John is very protective of his skull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is a ghost haunting the skull on Sherlock's mantlepiece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spirited Companion

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic about a year ago, but then I wasn't sure how to finish it, and it got shelved. But then earlgreytea68's [AU Ficathon of Absurdity](http://earlgreytea68.livejournal.com/420191.html) reminded me of it, and I was inspired to dust it off and finish it for the ficathon. Because come on, crackfic is like my calling.

When Sherlock moved into his new lodgings, one of the first things he did was unpack the human skull and place it carefully on the mantelpiece.

Some people were taken-aback or disturbed by this particular piece of decoration, particularly when they discovered that Sherlock seemed quite fond of it.

People, Sherlock knew, were unobservant idiots. None of them had the least _idea_ why he was so attached to the skull. But then, even if they did they would probably be just as perturbed.

“Perfect,” Sherlock declared in satisfaction, looking around and mentally mapping out possible locations for all his possessions before he prepared to leave. He needed to sort out all his things later, of course, but for now, he had other things to do. “Mrs Hudson, I’m going out.”

“Already?” his new landlady asked in surprise, eyeing all the boxes where they sat on the floor, unopened.

“I’m afraid so. Things to do, I’ll be back later, don’t wait up.”

Halfway to the door, Sherlock paused, as a thought occurred to him. His expression turned grave.

“Oh, and Mrs Hudson. Whatever you do, don’t touch the skull.”

Sherlock went striding from the flat, without waiting to explain this cryptic piece of advice despite the landlady’s protests.

* * *

When Sherlock returned, he found Mrs Hudson absent, the flat in even more disarray than when he’d left it, and the skull planted firmly – perhaps even defiantly – on the mantelpiece. Everything else around it had been swept off onto the floor.

Sherlock frowned at the skull.

“I suppose that Mrs Hudson is recovering from the fright of her life.”

There was a slight shimmer in the air.

“She tried to take my skull,” the shimmer said defensively, if a little sheepishly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to hide his smirk.

“I’m sure that’s a perfectly valid excuse.”

“It’s my _skull!_ ” the ghost insisted.

Sherlock had to admit he had a point.

“Still, John,” he told his intangible flatmate. “Frightening defenceless old ladies is unlike you.”

There was an embarrassed silence, and a mumble which was largely unintelligible but for the word ‘ _skull_ ’ somewhere in the middle.

Sherlock sometimes wondered if John had ever been so strongly fixated on anything when he was alive, or if his strong emotional attachment to his metaphysical anchor-point – his skull – was purely a ghostly trait. It was impossible to determine with only the current evidence.

Sherlock did not actually know all that much about John. The ghost didn’t like to talk about his life and it was very difficult – although not impossible – to make deductions about a non-corporeal being, and about all Sherlock knew was that John had been a soldier in Afghanistan, a medic, who had been shot and killed in action. He also knew that John had a sister, alcoholic, and that the two of them had not been close (in part because of her drinking problems), as well as the fact that John had strong ideas about keeping the flat in order.

Sherlock knew the last point of information because John’s primary hobby was rearranging and tidying the flat, so that whenever Sherlock arrived home he found that everything had been tidied away, all the dishes done and the laundry sorted, and the body parts in the fridge all sealed away in labelled containers and stored only on the bottom shelf. 

It was rather like having an invisible and slightly fussy housekeeper. Sometimes John yelled at Sherlock over the state of the flat, but mostly he simply kept things neat and tidy, which saved Sherlock the trouble of doing it himself. Sherlock felt that this was a sufficient trade-off for having his experiments disturbed now and again, or the hot water cut off whenever John was in a mood.

In truth, Sherlock rather liked John’s constant, unseen presence. The ghost didn’t seem to mind his more unusual habits or his lack of social graces, even if he was irritated by them at times, and he was generally admiring of Sherlock’s brilliant intellect, which was something that Sherlock was entirely unaccustomed to.

It was… nice. And as long as the skull was left alone, things were more or less fine.

Sherlock sighed, and after removing his coat and scarf, flopped moodily onto the sofa, stretching out to gaze up at the ceiling.

“I assume the flat meets with your approval,” he said to John.

“It’s quite nice,” John agreed, his voice projecting from somewhere near the mantelpiece. Sherlock glanced over to see objects floating up in the air and settling down on the mantelpiece, as John put away all the things he’d disturbed during his fit of poltergeist activity earlier.

A few minutes later Sherlock heard the kettle switch on in the kitchen. A faint smile twitched at his lips. 

“I suppose I should introduce you to Mrs Hudson, since you’ve already indicated your presence,” he mused. “Explain that my skull is actually haunted, and not to worry about strange goings-on while I’m out.”

“Excuse me, _my_ skull,” John’s voice objected from the kitchen. “It is _my_ skull, thank you very much, it just happens to reside with you for the moment. Suggest anything else, and I’ll pour this tea down your shirt instead of into a cup.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock drawled superciliously. “Your skull, of course.”

“You’re a right twat, you know,” John informed him. But a few minutes later a cup of tea floated out to him, wobbling slightly, which Sherlock accepted as his due.

Sherlock squinted at the faint distortion in the air, trying yet again to discern some resemblance to a human form. But as usual, all he could see was a faint shimmer reminiscent of a heat haze. He scowled, discontented.

“Why do you always watch me drink tea?” he asked irritably, when the shimmer stayed where it was.

“I miss being able to drink it.” John’s voice was wistful.

“You’re absurd,” said Sherlock. But he didn’t complain any further.

“So,” said John, “Are you on a case, at the moment?”

“Not yet,” said Sherlock, putting down his tea, “although if there’s any more of these serial suicides, I have no doubt Lestrade will call me in.”

“Will there be?” asked John. There was no doubt in his voice to indicate anything other than certainty that Sherlock knew the answer. His faith in Sherlock’s abilities was always gratifying, Sherlock reflected.

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Tell me,” said John, and Sherlock began to explain.

The cup of tea was forgotten.

* * *

The next day, as predicted, Sherlock was called in to examine the crime scene of the newest ‘suicide’ victim.

On his way back to the flat Sherlock was in a bad mood. He’d spent ten minutes chasing a taxi which he believed contained the murderer he was looking for, but somehow, had ended up chasing the wrong vehicle, allowing the murderer to get away.

Sherlock was very disgruntled, and simply wanted to go home and think for a while in peace.

Stepping out of the cab, however, he could hear screams and shouting coming from his flat, eliminating that as an option.

Paying the fare in haste, he ran up the stairs, certain of what he was about to find when he got there.

Sure enough, Lestrade’s team were inside the flat, and they were under psychokinetic assault by an angry ghost.

Sherlock paused on the threshold to appraise the scene.

Lestrade was in one corner, bellowing tactical instructions as he wrestled with Sherlock’s second-favourite scarf, which was trying to strangle the detective inspector. One of the other idiots was attempting to help pull it off him, but to no avail. Two others were trying to shield themselves from flying crockery, while Donovan did battle with the rather violent chair that seemed to be attempting to reach Anderson, presumably with the intention of battering him to death.

Anderson himself, like the complete imbecile he was, was simply standing with a stupefied expression, holding John’s skull in both hands as he watched Donovan fight off the chair, with a look in his eyes that suggested he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock snarled, snatching the skull from Anderson’s hands and striding over to place it back on the mantelpiece shelf.

All the airborne objects immediately dropped to the floor, and the scarf wrapped around Lestrade’s throat went slack, resuming its usual inanimate qualities.

“ _There_ ,” Sherlock said disgustedly. “You’re back on the mantelpiece. Stop flinging my things about or I’ll throw your skull in the nearest skip.”

A pen bounced lightly off the side of Sherlock’s head, but otherwise John declined to respond.

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ” Lestrade’s voice filled the room with the kind of roar usually reserved, Sherlock had no doubt, for attendance at football games. “What the _fucking bollocks_ was that?!”

Sherlock whirled around to pin the Yarders with the full force of his glare.

“That was John,” he said scathingly. “He haunts the skull. Didn’t it occur to any of you _blockheads_ that since his attack was triggered by removing the skull that _putting it back_ might solve the problem? Now get out of my flat before I encourage John to attack you again!”

“A _ghost?_ ” Donovan sneered disbelievingly. Despite fending off a murderous chair, she seemed the least rattled out of the lot of them. “You expect us to believe –”

The skull clattered its teeth at her. As a group the team recoiled, one of them actually letting out a high-pitched scream.

“Right,” Lestrade decided, looking shaken. “Sod this. Come on, pack up. Make sure you bring the pink case – Sherlock, I’m going to be back tomorrow about that, you can’t just withhold evidence – come on, you lot, let’s get out of here.”

The team left hurriedly, its members looked unnerved or in Donovan’s case, belligerently skeptical.

The moment they were gone Sherlock gave a heartfelt, frustrated sigh, and sank down onto a chair, pulling his feet up underneath him so that he was perched on the seat.

“Lank-haired idiot,” John muttered angrily. The skull was vibrating slightly with his fury. “Waving my skull around like that. The rest of those bigoted bastards were hardly any better.”

_ Ah _ , thought Sherlock, enlightened.

“They discussed me,” he said aloud, as John was not yet capable of deducing his train of thought.

“A bit,” John admitted. “They’re not exactly grateful for your help, are they?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied dryly. “The capabilities of my own intellect expose the deficiencies of their own. They resent it.”

John was silent for a moment.

“That’s… petty of them.”

“The natural reaction of small and petty minds,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Now shut up, I need to think.”

“Mind you, you’d probably have fewer interpersonal problems if you weren’t such a wanker,” John told him pointedly, but left Sherlock alone.

Sherlock settled down and started to mentally examine the evidence again.

A few minutes later there was a giggle, unsuccessfully stifled. Sherlock scowled at the interruption.

“What?” he snapped out, without looking around.

“Nothing,” John said unconvincingly. Sherlock waited impatiently. “It’s just… did you see their faces?”

There was more giggling, unstifled this time. 

Sherlock thought about the varying facial expressions Lestrade’s people had been wearing when he walked in, and their reactions when the skull had clattered its teeth.

He found himself laughing as well.

* * *

Things were coming together nicely for Sherlock when Mrs Hudson appeared at the door, telling him that his taxi had arrived.

Sherlock stared up at her in resentful bewilderment.

“Taxi?” he demanded angrily. “What taxi? I didn’t order a –”

He stopped at his brain finished fitting everything together and presented him with the explanation.

_ Oh. _

“Right,” Sherlock said absently, thoughts racing. “Yes. Of course. My taxi. Thank you, Mrs Hudson, I’ll be right out.”

Mrs Hudson left again, and Sherlock stood for a moment, thinking.

“What is it?” John asked.

A smile spread slowly over Sherlock’s face.

“An interesting development,” he replied uninformatively, and turned to grab his coat.

“Wait!” 

Sherlock didn’t bother to pause, but an invisible force pulled at his arm, forcing him to stop for a moment. 

The mandible of John’s skull detached from the cranium, and the jawbone sailed across the room. The flap lifted on Sherlock’s coat pocket so that it gaped open, and the jawbone settled down inside it.

“I figured that since I’m stuck wherever my skull is, if you take part of it with you, then I might be able to switch between being with you or being stuck in the flat,” John explained. “I mean – if you don’t mind.”

That was an unexpected piece of brilliance on John’s part. Sherlock grinned approvingly.

“An excellent idea, John,” he announced, and swept out the door.

“Where are you going?” John shouted after him, but Sherlock was already on his way down the stairs, thinking about his upcoming encounter with his mysterious murderer. 

John cursed behind him.

* * *

The cabbie! Of course it was the cabbie! How could Sherlock not have _realised?_

The taxi was parked on the curb, and there he was, the murderer himself, waiting.

“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes,” he smiled. 

“I didn’t order a taxi,” Sherlock replied, scanning the man.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one,” the man returned, still smiling.

“You’re the cabbie," said Sherlock, because sometimes even he felt the need to state the obvious. "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was _you_ , not your passenger."

The cabbie smirked.

“See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

There was a shimmer in the air next to Sherlock. He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye.

“Is this a confession?”

“Oh, yeah,” the cabbie agreed easily. “And I’ll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.”

He seemed completely untroubled by the prospect. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

The cabbie smiled knowingly, this time.

“Because you’re not going to do that,” he said confidently.

“Am I not?” Sherlock pressed.

“I didn’t kill those four people, Mr. Holmes,” the cabbie explained patiently. “I spoke to them ... and they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing.” He leaned forward. “I will never tell you what I said.”

Sherlock stared at him, calculating, as the cabbie started to walk around the front of the cab.

“No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result,” Sherlock pointed out, and waited to see what the man said next.

The cabbie paused.

“And you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?” 

…true.

“Sherlock, _no_ ,” hissed the air shimmer under its breath, but Sherlock asked, 

“If I wanted to understand, what would I do?”

“Let me take you for a ride,” the cabbie said calmly.

“So you can kill me too?” Sherlock drawled. The cabbie just smiled.

“I don’t want to kill you, Mr. Holmes. I’m going to talk to you ... and then you’re going to kill yourself.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John began urgently, quite familiar with the expression on Sherlock’s face, “ _don’t you dare–_ ”

Sherlock got in the cab.

* * *

Sherlock lost John once the cab began to move more quickly, and part of his mind wondered about how speed affected John’s ability to pinpoint the location of the mandible in Sherlock’s coat pocket. Perhaps John would be amenable to carrying out some experiments on the matter, he mused absently, as he scrutinised the photo on the cab dashboard, keeping up a flow of conversation with the cabbie. Really, the man was an idiot, for all he fancied himself above the rest of the population in that area.

The cab pulled up at  Roland-Kerr Further Education College, and Sherlock and the cabbie got out. It was at this point the cabbie pulled a gun. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the cabbie was undisturbed.

“Don’t need this with you, because you’ll follow me,” he said simply, and began walking away. 

Sherlock grimaced at being predictable, but followed him inside.

Sherlock was roundly unimpressed by the speech that followed. He had enough data now, enough pieces of the puzzle, and began to make his deductions. For all that the cabbie thought highly of himself, he was just a small-minded, bitter little man, and it was hardly difficult to deduce him; in the end, he was left with nothing to use against Sherlock, not even the obviously fake ‘gun’ he used to intimidate his victims.

Sherlock was almost disappointed. After all, the cabbie wasn’t even the one who had conceived the idea – that had been his mysterious sponsor.

“ Well, this has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case,” Sherlock said dismissively, and started for the door.

“Just before you go, did you figure it out ...” Sherlock paused, and turned to look back. “...which one’s the good bottle?”

“Of course. Child’s play.” 

“Well, which one, then? Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?”

Sherlock closed the door and walked back to the table, and picked up one of the pill bottles.

“ Oh. Interesting,” said the cabbie. “So what do you think? Shall we?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” a third voice burst out. “Haven’t you ever _seen_ this movie?”

The cabbie jumped violently, and Sherlock blinked, turning to look at the spot where the air wavered.

“What–”

One of the chairs was swept up and smacked into the back of the cabbie’s head. He toppled to the floor unconscious.

“ _Both_ bottles were poison, you pillock!” John said furiously, before Sherlock could say anything. “He was obviously setting a trap for you – hadn’t it occurred to you, that a man like him in his position might not have a problem killing himself if it meant proving you wrong? Not to mention, he probably would have got some sort of bonus fee from whoever was paying him to kill people.”

“Of course,” Sherlock lied, after a long, awkward pause.

The other pill bottle bounced off his shoulder.

“That’s it,” John said, “you are watching _The Princess Bride_ if I have to drive you mad to make you do it.”

* * *

“You know, I’m somewhat surprised,” Mycroft said, the next time he stopped by. “I would have thought that the temptation to prove your cleverness by taking one of the pills would have been far too much for you.”

“Inconceivable,” said Sherlock, and drew his bow across the strings of his violin.

Mycroft paused, and gave Sherlock a long look full of suspicion.

It was probably his imagination, but Sherlock thought that the shimmer in the air had a distinctly smug look to it.


End file.
